


have I got a deal for you, sweetheart

by canistakahari



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bad Fashion, Blow Jobs, Comedy, Established Relationship, Even worse taste, M/M, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23638123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: Steve decides to change up his wardrobe, mostly to fuck with Bucky, who has a reaction neither of them is expecting.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 77
Kudos: 565





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my pal newsbypostcard, who spit-balled this entire fic with me and contributed several excellent lines of dialogue when I made the extremely embarrassing discovery that I like the outfit chris evans is wearing in [these](https://imgur.com/OdtZSuC) [photos](https://imgur.com/UZacprC). yikes.

It’s not that Steve doesn’t enjoy taking Bucky shopping. 

Far from it. It’s a fun time for them both, because Bucky loves clothes and Steve loves watching him try them on. 

What Steve doesn’t like is that taking Bucky shopping is almost always preceded by a noticeable dip in Bucky’s mood, and Steve hates to see him languish in bored misery. 

When Bucky starts to visibly wilt, bumming around the house in items of clothing that Steve has worn once and then discarded, taking him out for a little retail therapy is a reliable way to start lifting his mood. Steve thinks it reminds him to be present in his body and Steve enjoys trailing after him as Bucky mutters to himself about synthetic fabrics and this season’s colors. Steve relishes the opportunity to simply sit back and watch as Bucky emerges from the fitting room and models each outfit for him. 

It’s definitely a good time. 

Today, Bucky has spent the morning alternating between draping himself listlessly over the bed, couch, Steve’s lap, and, finally, a sunbeam on the floor, spending about half an hour in each position before sighing deeply and finding a new spot. The cat joins him in the sunbeam, and for a while, Steve enjoys the image of Bucky curled up perfectly still on his side, while Alpine attacks the curtain of his hair. 

The ennui does not lift. 

“Buck,” says Steve.

From the floor, his back to Steve, Bucky grunts. 

“Wanna go shopping?”

He gets a marginally more interested noise in response, though Bucky doesn’t move yet. 

There’s a chance he doesn’t want to, will request being left alone to feel his feelings, but just in case he needs a small push instead, Steve takes initiative, going to their bedroom to change into a pair of jeans. Bucky’s still in the same spot on the floor when he returns, Alpine nuzzling at his face while Bucky absently rubs her ears. Slipping his wallet into one pocket and his phone into the other, Steve makes a show of jingling his keys.

“Five minutes,” mumbles Bucky, picking himself up off the floor. It’s the first thing he’s said to Steve all day. 

Steve beams as Bucky passes him on the way to their room, and Bucky’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile.

oOo

“Hey,” says Steve. “Look.”

Bucky stops and turns around, eyebrows raised. 

He’s still wearing slouchy comfort clothes, but before they left the apartment, Bucky changed into a pair of leggings and one of Steve’s oversized hoodies. With his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, he looks like he’s on his way to a sleepy morning yoga class. 

Bucky’s expression is open and curious, until he sees what Steve wants him to look at, and then it collapses into open horror. “Snakeskin? Steve, please,” he scoffs. 

It’s a game Steve plays, on days when it’s particularly challenging for Bucky to get himself up off the literal and metaphorical floor. It’s easy to play the fool and let Bucky make jokes at his expense, pointing out fashion that he knows Bucky will hate, just to see him lean into theatrical contempt and start to have fun. 

“I dunno,” says Steve, grinning. He’s only got one shopping bag tossed over his shoulder so far, and he wants to encourage more indulgence in Bucky. “I kinda like it.”

Bucky mimes being sick. “It’s _tacky_.”

“You love tacky.”

“Not like _that_.”

Steve reaches out and rubs the material between his thumb and forefinger. It feels like plastic. “Think this is real?” he says anyway.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky says, brimming with scorn. He joins Steve next to the mannequin and squints at it, his mouth turned down into a c-shaped frown. “Ugh.”

Steve grins widely. “I like it.”

“Snakeskin?” Bucky repeats. “Steve. _Really_?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, completely eating shit. “Yeah. I like it. I could look nice.”

That gives Bucky pause, doing a double-take between Steve and the horrible vinyl jacket. His mouth drops open, naked shock wiping clean the disgust. “ _You_? In _this_?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Steve easily. “This isn’t your style at all, Buck. I know better than that.”

“But it’s _yours_?”

“It could be. You think you’re the only one that likes the finer things in life? Maybe I want a little taste of luxury, too.”

Bucky laughs, helplessly loud, and smacks Steve in the bicep. “You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as a heart attack, Buck,” Steve says gravely. 

“This isn’t even real snakeskin. It’s not even _leather_.”

“So it’s vegan,” says Steve. “I’m into that.”

Bucky squints at the tag. “It’s $1500. You want a plastic jacket that costs more’n a grand, you’re welcome to it, pal.” 

He turns and flounces away, leaving Steve alone with the newest piece of his wardrobe. 

“Wanna come home with me?” he says to it. “Yeah. Vacation Steve, here we come.”

oOo

“There you are,” says Bucky when Steve finds him again, having detoured to the front desk to put the jacket aside so Bucky doesn’t see it. “Did you get lost?”

“Blinded by haute couture. Find anything good?” Steve asks. 

“Yes. Sit,” says Bucky, pointing at the bench. “I’ve got stuff to try on.”

Steve sits. This is his favorite part. Bucky disappears into the fitting room and Steve absently listens to him rustling around, looking around while he waits. 

There’s another mannequin a few feet away, dressed in distressed jeans and a violently green patterned shirt. Is that silk? It looks smooth to the touch. The pattern is vaguely tropical, with bursts of lime and peacock green. 

It’s kind of hideous. The color is nice, and maybe paired with something tame to subdue the loud print, it could look good, but Steve immediately pictures the faux snakeskin jacket and imagines both pieces worn together. 

“Okay,” says Bucky, his voice floating out from the fitting room. “Ready?”

“For you, honey, always,” says Steve, turning his full attention back to the closed curtain. “Hit me.”

Bucky emerges in a pair of crisp white jeans, a blue cashmere sweater, and a loose, flowing white scarf. The whole ensemble makes his eyes pop, and he turns in a flirty circle for Steve. 

“I like what these pants do for my ass,” he says frankly. 

“So do I,” Steve says, clearing his throat. “Wow, Buck.”

Bucky’s mouth slips into a shy, crooked grin, ducking his head to adjust the drape of the scarf. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’ll put that in the ‘yes’ pile, then.” With a final smile, Bucky shuffles back into the fitting room to put on his next outfit. 

While he’s gone, Steve gets up and drifts over to the mannequin. The shirt is real silk. It costs $200, which seems almost affordable when compared to his overpriced plastic jacket. He just has to buy it, now, and he can complete his own look. Finding his size on the nearby rack, he folds it carefully and hides it under the shopping bag he’s carrying. 

“Okay,” Bucky calls again. 

“Coming,” says Steve, and takes his seat.

oOo

Bucky hums as they walk home hand in hand, his face turned up into the sun, eyes closed behind his sunglasses.

Not quite done spoiling him, Steve buys him an overpriced latte and a pastry, drinking in Bucky’s delighted expression.

Nestled in the very bottom of one of the shopping bags, Steve’s new jacket and shirt lie in wait.

oOo

Steve waits about a week before he wears his new outfit.

The thing is, Steve knows what kind of response it will elicit. He got a taste of it at the store, and knows it will only be amplified when Steve reveals he actually bought it. 

Bucky will hate it. Steve can already predict his immediate and vehement dislike and so he can also anticipate just how much fun Bucky is going to have hating it. 

It’s also going to make more of an impact if Steve waits a while after their shopping trip, so when they go out for a date a few nights later, Steve restrains himself from putting it on. They’re going to a wine bar that only serves Riesling and oysters, which is exactly the kind of establishment specializing in niche pretension that Bucky is obsessed with, and Steve refuses to embarrass him. Yet. 

Bucky has been desperate for a reason to wear one of his new outfits, so Steve strategically dresses down in a pair of modest slacks and a bland button up, while Bucky recreates the white jeans and blue sweater ensemble, arranging the scarf around his neck with patient precision. 

“Did you pick this place because they don’t serve red wine?” Steve asks, helping Bucky into his impeccably tailored tan coat. 

“Of course I did,” says Bucky. “Can you imagine if someone spilled merlot on me when I’m dressed like this?”

“Nightmare,” murmurs Steve. 

“Anyway,” says Bucky. “Red wine sucks. I only drink white wine.”

Steve arches an eyebrow. He has no opinion on wine, but he knows what Tony would say. “Riesling is just white grape juice.”

Bucky snorts. “Buddy, all wine is basically grape juice to us. You’re thinking of Moscato, though.”

“Oh?” murmurs Steve. “There’s a difference?”

“Ask that question again when we get there,” says Bucky eagerly. “I want to see the hipsters teach you about wine.”

So, no. Date night isn’t appropriate for Steve’s grand reveal. 

A few days later, though, Bucky sits up from where he’s sprawled on the couch after dinner and says, “I want ice cream.”

“There’s a tub in the freezer,” replies Steve. Alpine is stretched out on her back between his legs, and he’s pressing on the upraised pads of her feet, then snatching his hand away when her claws come out. When she finally succeeds in catching his hand with both paws, Steve indulgently lets her fight his fingers. 

“No, I want a cone,” says Bucky. “Don’t you want a cone?”

Steve perks up. “Waffle?”

“Dipped in chocolate,” says Bucky, jumping to his feet. “Go get changed.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Steve looks down at his sweatpants and t-shirt. “We’re just gonna walk to the ice cream parlour.”

“You’re not wearing underwear,” says Bucky. “You can’t walk down the street in public until you contain your junk.”

“Oh,” says Steve, gently tipping Alpine onto the couch and dragging himself to his feet with an exaggerated stretch. “Guess not.” 

In the bedroom, Steve opens his closet, and there it is. 

Bucky asked him to change, after all. It’s low risk, because it’s not a date; they’re just going out for ice cream. They’ll be out for a half hour, tops. It’s the perfect opportunity. 

Grabbing a pair of black jeans, Steve pulls them on first. The shirt feels nice, cool against his skin. On its own, it doesn’t look too bad. Staring at himself in the mirror, Steve opens the first few buttons, letting some chest hair peek out. Then he tucks the hem of the shirt into his jeans, turning this way and that to check his profile. Once he adds the jacket, though, he instantly transforms from garish tourist to sleazy loan shark. 

“Steve,” yells Bucky from the living room. “What’s taking so long?”

“I’m getting dressed,” Steve calls back. “Out in a second!”

Steve runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Then he grins at himself in the mirror and vacates the closet. 

“Hurry it up, Rogers,” Bucky says, turning to pin him with a scowl when Steve remerges in the living room. “I want—”

Bucky cuts himself off with a sharp inhalation, expression falling open in slack shock. His eyes dart over Steve from head to toe, taking in every gaudy inch of him. 

Steve waits patiently for him to process his reaction. 

Having now borne witness to Steve’s fully assembled look, Bucky makes a tortured sound that hisses out of him like a deflating balloon. 

“I’m ready,” Steve says calmly, picking up his keys and joining Bucky by the door. 

As he approaches, Bucky bares his teeth at him in a silent snarl, eyes narrowing. “Serious as a heart attack, huh, Steve.”

“What?” Steve says innocently. He spreads his hands to indicate his outfit. “This? You picked up something nice and I didn’t want to feel left out.”

“Nice?” echoes Bucky, his voice rising sharply. “ _Nice_?”

“I call this look ‘Vacation Steve’,” he says cheerfully, opening the apartment door. “You comin’?”

Bucky slinks out after him, his eyes burning a hole into Steve’s back.


	2. Chapter 2

**bucky** : help  
 **bucky** : natasha  
 **bucky** : romanoff  
 **bucky** : blease halp me  
 **natasha** : what? what’s going on?  
 **bucky** : stebe  
 **bucky** : stepbenen  
 **natasha** : please confirm neither of you are in physical danger before i suit up and come over there to find you’re just mad he put your favorite mug in the dishwasher again  
 **bucky** : i’m in physical danger of burning out my retinas looking at my EVIL HUSBAND  
 **natasha** : explain  
 **bucky** : 📷 Photo  
 **bucky** : 📷 Photo  
 **bucky** : he is doing this!!!!!! to TORTURE ME  
 **bucky** : LOOK AT THIS SHIT  
 **bucky** : i’m the eccentric one in this relationship  
 **bucky** : ME!   
**bucky** : who does he think he is?  
 **natasha** : green really is not his color  
 **bucky** : pls  
 **bucky** : hbelp mbe  
 **natasha** : i can sneak into your apartment in the middle of the night and disappear the clothing  
 **bucky** : no  
 **bucky** : he can’t win  
 **natasha** : well, do you want me to help you rationalize this?  
 **bucky** : you can try  
 **natasha** : look, maybe this means he’s just finally lightening up a little, or something  
 **natasha** : he can project too much severity  
 **bucky** : oh  
 **bucky** : no, that’s not it  
 **bucky** : he’s broken

Bucky rolls over on the rumpled bed and tosses his phone aside, glaring up at the ceiling. 

He lies there motionless for a moment, trying to conjure up an acceptable example of what it would look like if Steve were to _lighten up_ and gets nothing but static for his troubles. It is true that Steve does outwardly project severity when he’s aware he’s being watched in public and is often too serious for his own good. The thing is, Steve’s also a huge fucking troll, and he will play the long game with Bucky if something stokes his smoldering sense of humor. 

Steve finds this hilarious. It’s all a big joke. Vacation Steve has arrived to poke Bucky with a big stick and grin at him with ice cream in his beard and say, “Are you taking pictures of me, Buck?”

Bucky snatches up his phone and scrolls through his camera roll. The last thirty photos are Steve from all angles, a brown and green blight on humanity. Steve with an ice cream cone, Steve with his hands in his pockets, Steve strolling long-legged back to their apartment. 

He looks—he looks so— 

_Stupid_. 

Bucky stares at the photo where Steve has been caught mid-lick, tongue extended to sweep up the scoop of plain-ass strawberry ice cream he got. 

No. Bucky doesn’t like it. This is not a good look. 

_This is terrible to look at_ , Bucky thinks with a healthy degree of hysteria, sweeping furiously through the photos over and over again, heat prickling at the base of his spine. 

This is _terrible_.

oOo

They go to the grocery store, Steve wears the outfit. Bucky takes Alpine to the vet, Steve tags along wearing the outfit. Steve asks if Bucky wants to go for a walk in the park, and when he emerges from their bedroom, he’s wearing the outfit. 

Bucky endures it silently, reflexively clenching his jaw, and refuses to let Steve hold his hand because he might brush against that godawful material. 

Steve just grins pleasantly, completely at ease, and shoves both his hands in his pockets instead, running to keep up when Bucky tries to power-walk away from him. 

One morning, they go to the bakery to get bread, and Steve has done something to his hair. 

He keeps it longer, these days, naturally swept back from his forehead to curl around the edges of his ears. Bucky loves it, how soft it is, how he can grab a handful easily, but now—

“What did you do,” he says flatly, blocking the apartment door with his body. 

Steve glances at himself in the hallway mirror, the corners of his lips turned up in a knowing smirk. “Nothin’.”

“Is that gel?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you slick it back—”

“Kept falling in my eyes, Buck.”

“You look,” Bucky starts, filling his lungs with air. 

“Yeah?” interrupts Steve, pulling a _comb_ out of his pocket and sweeping it through the sticky mess on his head. 

Bucky grinds his teeth. “Let’s go,” he mutters. “I want to get there before they sell outta the sourdough.”

oOo

When Steve goes out for a drink with Sam one night, Bucky assumes he’ll finally wear normal clothes. 

Surely he won’t go so far as to embarrass himself in front of anyone other than Bucky and the rotating array of perfect strangers forced to bear witness while Steve does errands dressed as a mobster’s trashy uncle. Bucky has begged off going to the bar, not in the mood to hold a conversation with anyone, even Steve, and so he is unprepared for Steve to come into the living room and say, “I’ll be back in a few hours, Buck,” and _still be dressed in the outfit_.

“Hhhnnh,” wheezes Bucky, wide-eyed, closing his metal fist so tightly around his paperback that he rips the spine in half. 

That rat bastard. If Bucky wasn’t so flustered, he’d actually be impressed by Steve’s commitment. Bucky’s not even going out with him, but Vacation Steve’s made his choice. 

Steve smiles, giving him a little wave and winking at Bucky over his shoulder as he leaves. 

Bucky kicks his legs off the couch and slides down until he can direct every ounce of his repressed fury at the ceiling, while his body catalogs his confused reaction as arousal and consumes him with lust for the rest of the evening.

oOo

Bucky didn’t anticipate being betrayed by his own bad taste.

If he jerks off three times thinking of himself kneeling between Steve’s legs, trapped by dark-wash denim and a hectic tableau of swirling patterns and bright colors, then that’s between him and his traitorous dick. 

Steve’s still a sloppy bitch, and Bucky’s not going to let him win the game.

oOo

**bucky** : so the problem here  
 **bucky** : is that steve is stealing my thing  
 **bucky** : i feel threatened by this mimicry, paltry as it is  
 **natasha** : seriously?  
 **natasha** : that’s what bothers you? not that he looks like he crawled right out of a used car lot in the middle of the night and he’s going to try to sell you a lemon?  
 **bucky** : no that part does it for me   
**natasha** : I'm blocking your number

oOo

He’s definitely trying to rationalize it, now. 

Not like Romanoff suggested, because giving Steve the benefit of the doubt is a mistake. Steve’s not doing this for himself, as a treat. Vacation Steve was specifically designed to drive Bucky wild and inspire mortified horror in him so intense that eventually Bucky will do something drastic to get rid of the clothes. Steve assumes Bucky will break, they’ll both laugh at their hilarious couple-y antics, and everything will go back to normal. It’s a long game.

There’s no way Steve is prepared for Bucky to fully loop back around from disgust to horny longing, because Bucky isn’t prepared for it either. 

He is enraged. He is absolutely livid. 

When Steve is not in the house, and is therefore out in the world, just existing in reality wearing The Cursèd Outfit, Bucky thinks of nothing but the ridiculous expanse of his shoulders in that horrible jacket, salivates over the slutty tease of clavicle and chest windowed by his open collar, imagines how the shirt will feel against his fingers when he pulls it out of his jeans to open Steve’s fly.

Because that’s how this is going to end. 

Bucky has finally come to terms with it. Steve will get home, Bucky will push him into the armchair, tie up his hair, and drop to his knees. 

Then he’s going to suck Steve’s brain out through his dick, and when they’re done, Bucky will strip him naked and burn the jacket and shirt on the roof, just like he should have done the moment Steve brought them home.

oOo

“This isn’t what I expected,” Steve says hoarsely. 

Bucky lifts his head and licks his lips, taking in the stretched out slump of Steve’s body, knees spread obscenely wide to accommodate Bucky between them, and all the blood rushes to his cock. 

“You’re telling me, pal,” mutters Bucky, twisting his hair up into a bun and tying it off. He narrows his eyes. 

Steve looks absurdly good. It’s so fucking upsetting. 

Flushed and eager, eyes dark as he peers warily down at Bucky parked stubbornly between his legs. The whole picture should be a joke, but it isn’t any longer. 

Steve’s gorgeous no matter what he’s wearing, which is the real lesson here. Apparently when confronted with visual discord, Bucky will just rewire his own brain until his body finds it appealing. What’s next, a moustache? Bucky can’t live with that. Steve can’t know this is actually turning Bucky on. He has to make it seem like he’s fucking with Steve right back.

Bucky pops the button of Steve’s jeans and unzips his fly. 

“Shit,” rasps Steve, squirming. He reaches up to grip the wings of the chair. “Bucky—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts breathlessly. “Sell me a car, baby.”

Steve chokes in surprise, because Bucky chooses that moment to pull Steve’s half-hard cock out of his underwear. “ _What_ —”

“It’s gonna be a real clunker, right?” asks Bucky, curling his fingers around the base. 

Steve’s face is turning the same shade of pink as his dick. He makes a noise, high in his throat, and Bucky wraps his lips around the head. His other hand is on Steve’s hip, braced against the slick material of the jacket. 

The smooth length of Steve’s cock firms up in his mouth despite the words that Bucky just said out loud. Bucky tilts his head, coaxing him further back into his throat, and Steve bites back a curse, fingers digging into the upholstery of the chair. “Yeah,” Steve says roughly. “Yeah, it is. Have I got a deal for you, sweetheart.”

Bucky hollows his cheeks, swallowing around him, eyes fixed on Steve’s face to watch his eyelashes flutter. He pulls back slowly, popping off with a wet noise. “Be honest with me,” he says, voice low. “Did the engine ever fall out?”

Steve huffs out a breath, eyes a little wild. Bucky applies a bit of pressure around the base of his erection, and Steve whispers, “Yeah. I put—sawdust in the transmission, too.”

It’s too much. Bucky almost cracks, ducking his head back down to hide his face and distracting himself with a mouth full of dick. 

Steve, blessedly, doesn't seem to notice, sucking in a sharp breath at the sudden suction. His hips twitch, but he doesn’t try to take over, even though Bucky would happily let Steve fuck his face. The disoriented clusterfuck that is Bucky’s confused arousal reaches fever-pitch, heat pooling between his legs as his own cock throbs insistently. 

“Fuck,” chokes Steve, dropping a hand onto the top of Bucky’s head and curling into his hair. “Bucky. Buck—”

He’s blood-hot in Bucky’s mouth, a thick, pleasantly heavy weight. Bucky closes his eyes and sweeps his tongue along the underside of his shaft, lips pursed, before taking him deeper. He swallows, throat tight, and feels Steve’s cock twitch. Steve’s sensitive, most days, and this whole silly scenario seems to be working for him. Bucky throws himself into pleasing him, working him up and working him over, until Steve’s muffling whimpers in his hand, thighs tense and trembling. 

Then, finally, Steve tightens his grip in Bucky’s hair and comes with a strangled cry. 

When Bucky has swallowed, he sits on his heels and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“Let’s talk payment,” he says. 

“Oh,” Steve says weakly, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

oOo

**bucky** : nvm we figured it out  
 **natasha** : happy 4 u  
 **natasha** : never ever expand on what that entails  
 **bucky** : guess i’m just into used car salesmen  
 **natasha** : barnes  
 **bucky** : 😏  
 **natasha** : yikes

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can come talk to me on twitter @ [canistakahari](https://twitter.com/canistakahari)!


End file.
